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Roach isn't in the galley when the Swede comes looking for him, which is fine, no big deal. The man's got other things to be doing than minding the kitchen, but considering that one of those things he could be doing is the Swede himself, it'd be nice if Roach could be found without having to look the goddamn ship from stem to stern in search of him. He's not on deck, not in the jam room or the ball room or the rec room, not in the bilges, not in the livestock room. By the time the Swede runs out of places to check he's rounded back into the galley which is still bereft of its cook.
"Can't just make it easy on me," the Swede mutters, closing his eyes to breathe in and sighing it out heavily. All the scents of the galley mingle in his nose, the bunches of herbs strung up from the ceiling, the bite of spices they've looted from merchant ships, the tang of alcohol and the brightness of citrus and the smoke of the cook fire and Roach's ever-present cigarettes, and under it all, the scent of Roach himself, the hours he's spent sweating in the heat to produce food for the crew with such talent and such pride in his skills. The Swede scrunches his face up slightly, breathing deep; when he opens his eyes to find Roach standing in front of him he screams in surprise, just a little.
"Shh," Roach laughs, clapping one hand over the Swede's mouth. "What are you doing here, standing around sniffing like this?"
"I was trying to find you," the Swede mumbles into Roach's palm, broad across his face and smelling of iron or maybe of blood. He licks experimentally and yes, that's the tang of blood. "Were you doctoring or slaughtering?" he asks when Roach removes his hand.
"Chicken for dinner," Roach says, lifting his other hand to show the headless bird. "Why were you looking for me?" He moves around the Swede to lay the chicken on the counter before he pulls out the repurposed grain sack he's been using to save the feathers from the birds he's plucked in the course of his gustatory travails.
"No reason," the Swede says, lying through his remaining teeth, but the way he wraps himself around Roach's back and arches his neck to rest his chin on the cook's shoulder is much more truthful.
"No reason," Roach repeats, skeptical and amused, turning just enough to scuff his beard against the Swede's stubbly cheek. "Well, if you don't need me for anything..."
"I do," the protest comes promptly. "I need you for a lot of things." The cant of his hips against Roach's ass makes one of those things abundantly clear, and the Swede hums in approval when Roach rubs back into him.
"Promise you'll pluck the chicken for me after and you can pluck me now," Roach bargains, his smile bright in the dimness of the galley.
"Deal," the Swede agrees immediately, and wastes no time in hauling Roach into the pantry where the majority of their intimacy has taken place, the most privacy available to them on a ship full of gossipmongers. Not that their pairing off has gone unnoticed, but neither of them has the flair for exhibitionism that Lucius does, and in a closed room where there's no possibility of being overheard they're free to use each other's names, fondly breathed or desperately gasped or sighed in satisfaction.
Usually, he's satisfied enough to be pushed around, but there's a reason he searched Roach out now. The cook lets out a small 'oof' as he's shoved back into the pile of grain sacks, and a slightly larger 'ohh' when the Swede goes to his knees, grinning up at Roach while his calloused fingers work open his pants beneath the drape of his apron. "Rik," Roach says, tugging off the blue-and-white headband so he can bury his fingers in blond hair without hindrance but wrapping it around his wrist for safekeeping. "Looking for me to feed you after all?" he teases. "And here I thought you might want something else..."
"I want this," the Swede says, his hand wrapping around Roach's cock as it tangibly hardens between his fingers, thickening with every stroke. "Real bad. All day long." His other hand pushes the apron up until the bottom's tucked into the top of it, baring Roach from the waist down, and then he leans in to nuzzle into the crux of his legs, breathing in the hot musky scent as if Roach's sweaty balls were more delectable than any of his cooking. "Mm. Yeah."
"You just want a snack, or you making a meal out of me?" Roach thinks he's funny, but the look he gets in return is no laughter, just heat and desire, naked want in half-lidded blue eyes.
"Want you to fuck my face, Santosa." It's half-request, half-wish, the way the Swede tends to voice all of his desires, part of him still expecting to be summarily denied even though Roach has never been reluctant to give him what he asks for.
"Oh," Roach breathes, his fingers tightening in the Swede's hair as those chapped lips part for him. "Yeah? Is my angel hungry?" The stubble around his mouth is a genuine hazard to the tender skin of Roach's prick, but the Swede opens wide, lets himself be pulled forward until the whole length of Roach slides over his tongue, the tip nudging at the back of his throat in the exact breath-stealing eye-watering way he's been craving since he woke up to find that Roach had already gone off to his duties that morning. "Fuck, babe..."
Neither one of them is completely sure who's in control of the act; the fact of it is that Roach's strong fingers knotted in the Swede's pale hair do most of the work, but it's the Swede's choice to choke himself on Roach's cock, his enthusiasm carrying him well past where Roach's pulling would take him. There's something about it that's savagely satisfying, having his air cut off by the thickness he can't do anything but slurp and drool around, the gasps he catches in the moments he's pulled back so thick with Roach's scent that it amplifies the salt-sharp taste of precome drawn slick across his tongue.
One more yank pulling the Swede in, then another, before Roach gasps, "Gonna come, where do you want it?"
For a second, the Swede entertains the thought of letting Roach spend across his face, marking him unmistakably with the sharp tang of his seed lingering on sunburnt skin even after it's wiped off, but no, he's been hungering for this taste. He pulls back just enough to let the head of Roach's cock rest on the center of his tongue and strokes his lover past the limit, catching the thickness of his spunk in his mouth to savor for a moment before swallowing it down.
Roach groans out his orgasm on the name of the one who's given it to him so greedily, "Rik, Rik, fuck, fuck." His head falls back into the grain sacks with a thwap, sinking back into the pile boneless with pleasure as the Swede gets back to his feet with a look of extreme smugness on his face.
"That was a meal," the Swede says with a grin, and licks his lips. "Yum."
"Fucking unbelievable, the mouth on you," Roach mutters, and reaches for him with both hands, fumbling with the rope holding up the Swede's pants before simply plunging his hand into them to get a grip on his cock. "This good? What you want?" he growls into the fall of stringy blond covering the Swede's ear.
"Uh-huh," he gets in reply, as the prickle of stubble rubs into the bend of Roach's throat, the Swede nuzzling into him in the close desperate way they can't get away with when they're sleeping together on deck. "Faster."
"Anything you want, angel." Pulling the Swede off takes about as much time as chopping an onion but is more fun by orders of magnitude; the way his voice soars when he comes into the cup of Roach's palm is almost pretty enough to bring similar tears to Roach's eyes though. "That's it, there you go," Roach breathes, and kisses the top of the Swede's head, letting him sag there against his chest for a long moment before carefully withdrawing his hand and absentmindedly wiping it on the edge of his apron. "You good?"
"I'm so good," the Swede sighs, and lifts his head slowly. "You're so good, Santosa. Just what I needed." His dopey smile, all soft eyes and flushed under his perpetual sunburn, is stupidly sweet.
Roach kisses him again, this time on the mouth. "Perfect," he says, and then nudges the Swede back until he's got his feet under him again. "Now you get to help with dinner, or explain why it'll be late," he says with a grin.
"Oh, yeah," the Swede says, laughing, "that'll go over well. 'Had to suck off the cook before I could let him get to work, sorry not sorry.' I should say it."
"Dare you to," Roach says, grin getting a manic edge. "Double dare you to say you choked on it."
"Fuck off," the Swede says fondly. "You want me to be in demand? But I'm yours." He is, he can feel it in the rasp of his throat, smell it in the sweat dried on his cheekbones, the invisible but very present marks of Roach's claim on him that he'd wear like medals of honor if anyone knew about them.
"Yeah, you are," Roach says, and cups the Swede's scratchy cheeks in his hands. "You're mine, and I want them all to be jealous."
"Huh," the Swede says, eyes widening. "...maybe I will tell them, then."
"I fucking love you, Rik," Roach says, and very quickly kisses him to keep that first-time admission from getting out of hand, making sure the Swede is good and breathless before he makes his escape from the storeroom, not quite ready to hear it back just yet.